forest of matted hair, with one leg link from the arm of a chair, mark twain's eyes blinded like an eagle through sopping browse. this rainy afternoon in june of 1863 mark twain was nursing a bad hangover in the steam rooms half way through what was intended to be a two month visit to san francisco that stretched to three years. sleepwalking journalists regularly went to the turkish baths to sweat out any dark thoughts of suicide attempt asians which were not uncommon. at the bat he played any at the with the proprietor and sawyer, the recently appointed customs inspector, volunteer firemen and bonafide local hero. in the clouds of boiling seem he was mending his own wounds bowed his were from a nearly fatal ordeal aboard a burning steamboat a decade earlier. in contrast to the lanky mark twain, sawyer was a stocky round faced metamorphic. his blue eyes were comfortable to gaze into, his hair was a disorder haystack, dark brown shock with sideburns, his chest with her and this and his body smooth, well nestled but without definition for two men. in comparison to mark twain, his mustache a